


Second Time's the Charm

by Macdicilla



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, NOT SURE IF WILL BE FINISHED, Vetinari is a very repressed man, approved by the Alive and Consenting Sybil Ramkin Code Authority, in fact she thinks it's hilarious, not finished
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 13:00:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17601836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macdicilla/pseuds/Macdicilla
Summary: Thirty-odd years ago, Havelock Vetinari, then a young assassin, tried (and failed) to seduce the late and great John Keel.About a month ago, Sam Vimes, while outside of his normal chronology, successfully turned down a young, willing, not-yet-Patrician's proposition, not for lack of interest, but out of a sense of duty to his future friend.His Lordship has been thinking A LOT about the fact that John Keel and Sam Vimes are the same man.He's going to ask him the same question again in the present, because there is a possibility that this time, he'll say yes.





	Second Time's the Charm

**Author's Note:**

> who knew that finding out that your first crush is also your most trusted friend can wreak havoc on years of intentional repression?  
> BREAKING: local tyrant utterly gotched by the realization that he wants the commander of the watch to make love to him.

When Lord Havelock Vetinari first made a mental connection between Samuel Vimes and John Keel, and, mind you, it was _a_  mental connection, and not yet _the_  realization that they were the same at that point–but this is putting the cart miles before the horse. One must begin at the beginning.   
  
When the Patrician first came into contact with Samuel Vimes, he made mental note of some superficial similarities between mister Vimes and the late John Keel. Vetinari was not one to forget a face, at any rate, but he was even less one to forget a handsome face. He put it down to his mind playing tricks on his memory, chided himself mentally for what he imagined was the mistake of not being able to tell one watchman from another, and finally, admitted to himself, without lack of embarrassment, that yes, he did have a type.   
  
The better Vetinari got to know and work with mister Vimes over the years, the less he linked him with Keel in his mind. It wasn't at all the same with Vimes. He was certainly fond of Vimes and did admire his integrity and the way he ran the watch, but Vetinari was also a middle-aged man now, and one known for his restraint, decorum, and propriety. He was nothing like the young assassin he had been thirty-five years ago. Or rather, he _was_  in the sense that he retained all of his training and kept his skills sharp, but he _wasn't_ like the awkward youth, who, despite being clever in other ways, had made a regrettably desperate and unsuccessful attempt to seduce and lose his virginity to the big handsome man from Pseudopolis.    
  
It wasn't a memory he liked to dwell on. It wasn't for prideful reasons, since, even then, he'd been mature enough to cope with rejection. It was because Keel had died soon after, at the barricades. Many had mourned him, and Vetinari was among them. It was such a shame. He had been a good man, and an officer like him would have been excellent for the city. It would be a while till another watchman of that calibre appeared.   
  
Sam Vimes had come along later and flourished from a hard-drinking copper into a wise, hyper-competent commander of the guard whose methods had transformed Ankh-Morpork into a far better place. Vetinari had promoted him as much as he dared. Vimes deserved but resented these promotions, as far as Vetinari could tell. He wished that Vimes would understand that he had no intent to bribe him, or put him in his debt, that he really was the right man for the job, for all these jobs, but Vimes had a cynical streak as wide as the Ankh at high tide, and there was no reasoning with forces of nature. (Not often, at least.)    
  
Besides, the Patrician had no desire to appear over-enthusiastic. It would be unbecoming of him. It was enough to let the man know that he had his trust and admiration. The other feelings, he could contain and compartmentalize within himself, as if in a jar.   
  
The god of luck, blind Io, decrees that glass jars can and will break. What shattered this jar was the realization that Keel and Vimes were one man, who had travelled through time. Vimes had returned from a mysterious absence bearing the marks of John Keel– the scar on the face, the injured eye. That was when Vetinari had dropped the jar. He'd kept himself composed through their conversation in the cemetery, at least.    
  
But the fumes of the jar had started to leak through Lord Vetinari's dreams, engendering an inconvenient sort of sexual re-awakening.    
  
"Really?" he thought to himself, "and at my age?"   
It had been ages since he had given thought to his needs. No, desires, not needs, he corrected himself. As the saying went, a man could go three minutes without breath, three days without water, and three weeks without food. In assassins' school he had learned the precise and accurate numbers of the deadly deprivations, and he was quite certain that there was no fatal upper limit to years without sex. So, desires, not needs. But the trouble was that they were rather persistent desires, ones that refused to be permanently suppressed by ice baths, calisthenics, crossword puzzles, and even one's own hand in the dark. The frustration would not subside.     
  
The thought occurred to Lord Vetinari that perhaps he really didn’t need to repress himself like that. He examined the events of the night so many years ago in his mind, calmly, trying not to cringe at the cringeworthy bits. It must not have been much more than a month ago for Vimes, of course. Vetinari thought it was hardly fair that the man got to remember the details more sharply. Then he nudged the thought aside and focused on the memory:

Himself as a young assassin, operating more on impulse than on plan. It was unlike him even then, but he’d realized at the time that some things would never happen unless he quickly set them in motion himself, and he couldn’t bear the notion of not creating an opportunity to talk to a genius like John Keel. Himself as a young assassin, slipping unseen and unheard into the man’s chamber, giving him a bit of a shock. A conversation, which was not entirely relevant, that had culminated in asking Keel to take him to bed, giving him even more of a shock.

Keel had given him a hungry look, and Vetinari had thought he had persuaded him. It was a look that Vetinari had thought about for a long time afterwards, which was not a euphemism. He had wondered why, when it was going so well, Keel’s expression of arousal had shifted into one of extreme hesitation.

“I’m sure I shouldn’t,” Keel had said.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” young Vetinari had said in his best attempt at a silky voice. It had come out a bit hoarser than intended. And then his hands were at Keel’s shirt buttons, and on his chest, and his lips were mouthing at some stubble on Keel’s jaw. 

Keel had reacted fast, bringing their mouths together, delivering a frantic kiss scorching enough that Vetinari had lost himself in it, and forgot all about taking Keel’s shirt off. It was a kiss that Vetinari had thought about for a long time after, and that  _ was _ a euphemism. He had wrapped his legs snugly around Keel’s waist and allowed himself to be carried. It had been a great disappointment when Keel put him down on the window ledge and not on the mattress. 

“Climb back down the wall,” Keel had said.

“I don’t want to.”

“And I don’t want to take advantage,” Keel had said, “so climb back down the wall.”

“I am twenty, you know,” Vetinari had called from halfway down the wall, thinking the comment pertained to his age. He wasn’t, actually, but it seemed worth a shot. “I can make informed decisions about what I’m getting into.”

And then Keel had latched the shutters closed, as if replying, 

“Be that as it may, you are not getting into this room.”

 

It could have gone worse, Vetinari thought to himself in the present, but not very much worse than being picked up and put somewhere else like a misbehaving cat. But that didn’t matter. He could focus on the relevant facts:

 

  1. That John Keel had turned down his proposition, not out of a lack of interest, but out of a sense of internal conflict. 
  2. That the man he had thrown himself at in the past was in fact a friend who had a deep (albeit begrudging) respect for him in the present.



 

It followed, then, that Vimes had rebuffed his younger self’s advances out of respect for their mutual trust. It had probably been a good call, given the situation of mistaken identity.

But, and this was the crucial part of the chain of reasoning, it  _ also _ followed that given a  _ different _ situation, Vimes might certainly be amenable to pursuing a different course of action this time. 

Vetinari very much wanted to find out. This time he’d be more measured about it. He wasn't going to throw caution to the winds, and he wasn't going to throw himself at anybody this time. Nonetheless, he knew he wouldn’t orchestrate anything complicated either. Vimes did so hate being orchestrated. He could speak to him. He would be perfectly frank. They'd sit down and have a reasonable, mature conversation, as equals, as men, as friends.

It was worth it to try and ask again, wasn’t it?    


**Author's Note:**

> Being as I am a better humourist than an eroticist, I was unable to follow the same plot as Resonant's fic, Pseudopolis. It is required reading, though, not because it'll help you understand this fic better, but because it's very good.


End file.
